


The Mystery of the Misplaced Detective

by SCFrankles



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: holmestice, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:28:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24304417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SCFrankles/pseuds/SCFrankles
Summary: Time is moving ever on for Holmes and Watson, and now in the second half of their lives they feel the need for new challenges. Watson has already left Baker Street to become a general practitioner again, and Holmes is finally leaving to become a beekeeper. But where exactlyisHolmes’s new residence? Watson has to do a little detective work…
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 27
Kudos: 28
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Summer 2020





	The Mystery of the Misplaced Detective

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexcat/gifts).
  * Translation into Nederlands available: [De zaak van de zoekgeraakte detective](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26302981) by [SCFrankles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SCFrankles/pseuds/SCFrankles)



> Written for [alexcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexcat) for the [Summer 2020 Round](https://holmestice.dreamwidth.org/577919.html) of Holmestice. 
> 
> Thank you as always to my sister for the beta!
> 
> * * *

For good or for ill, middle age is a time of reflection and taking stock. A time for looking back at past accomplishments and cautiously contemplating how much time is left for future endeavours. And why should it be any different for a consulting detective and a former army doctor residing together at 221B, Baker Street?

For as long as I had known him, Holmes had always busied himself with several different areas of study. What interested him most was the act of thinking itself and as he became a little older he began to yearn for more peace and solitude for his contemplations. In fact, this led to my friend starting to seriously consider a move to the countryside. Holmes was seen as the world famous consulting detective but that was never his entire identity. 

I too had always been seen primarily as “Doctor” Watson, even though that had not been my full identity for quite some time. I had been quickly invalided out of my position of army doctor, and I only truly went back to medicine several years later when I married Mary. That practice had eventually gone by the wayside after Mary’s death and Holmes’s return, and had been replaced by full-time writing and detective work. But facing the latter years of my life, I felt a desire to return to my first profession. Time was getting on and perhaps I would never have another chance. I remembered how passionate I had been about medicine when I began my studies. How much I had wanted to be a physician even as a boy. I wished to find out if I could rekindle that passion. 

And so I had made the decision to move out of Baker Street. My new practice was in Queen Anne Street and rather small—it did not seem a good idea to be too ambitious at this stage of my life. And it was only a mile from Baker Street, so I was still available for companionable evenings and for when Holmes had need of me for his cases. Though the number of cases began to diminish, through Holmes’s own choice. It took him a few more years after I had left to decide on his own new major challenge in life, but eventually he settled on the study of bees of all things. But once he had made his mind up on that, he started to look in earnest for his new home. He investigated properties around the country—sometimes using an agent, sometimes going himself. I occasionally accompanied him but I had my work and my own life. I must admit I rather lost track of all the places he was interested in. 

From the beginning, my new practice did fairly well. Some of my first patients were merely curious to visit the associate of the famed Sherlock Holmes but I quickly built up a good reputation based on my own professional abilities. I made a decent living and found myself in the position of being able to pay for a locum if I wanted a holiday. And so I took the opportunity to go away for a week, visiting Stamford up in Inverness where he had long since moved in order to work and to be near his ageing parents. 

It was an enjoyable stay but I was glad to return to London and get back to my own little home. And after settling myself down in my comfortable armchair with a cup of tea, I was just about to open up my current adventure novel when Sherlock Holmes barrelled through the door with my poor maid in pursuit.

He opened his mouth to speak. “Wats—!”

But Agnes managed to get there first. “It’s Mr. Holmes, Doctor!” she cried.

Ever since I had taken her into my employ, I had admired the girl’s close attention to procedure. I gave her a reassuring smile. “Thank you, Agnes. Perhaps you could bring in another teacup for him?”

She bobbed and left.

Holmes turned and called after her. “Don’t bring the teacup! There’s no time!”

He returned his attention to me.

“Watson! Thank heavens you’re back at last! I can’t stay long! Mr. Abbot and his boy have already started to the station with my things, and I must hurry to catch my train as well!”

Mr. Abbot and his boy? I stared at Holmes. “Mr. Abbot who owns the removal firm, you mean?”

“Yes, of course Mr. Abbot who owns the removal firm!” Holmes may have rolled his eyes at this. Time had not rubbed off all of his sharp edges. “Who else would I hire to move my belongings?”

Now, I naturally had questions at this point and I raised a finger in query but Holmes simply carried on.

“Of course I didn’t want to go without saying goodbye but you cut it damned fine, dear boy. I really have to leave today. The sale has been completed, and the hives and the bees are being delivered first thing tomorrow, and Mrs. Hudson already has the ‘perfect’ tenant lined up for my quarters—”

I shook my head in bemusement. “Wait a moment, Holmes. So you’re telling me you’re moving? _Today?”_

“Yes!” Holmes came forward and I stood to meet him. He took my hand and shook it vigorously. “I’ll write to invite you down as soon as I’m settled in.” He let go of my hand and took out his watch. “However, now I really must go! Goodbye, Watson!”

And he hurried away to let himself out again before Agnes could manage to sprint out of the kitchen. I myself was left utterly bewildered and unaware where his new abode actually was. 

Being friends with Sherlock Holmes had long taught me to be a patient man. So I waited. And waited a little more. But after a fortnight of no contact I decided to go and speak to Mrs. Hudson after my surgery hours and see if she had an address for him. 

The good lady let me in and I briefly met her new tenant in the hall, as he had just arrived before me. He seemed respectable if entirely unremarkable and he gave me a polite nod before disappearing upstairs.

“Mr. Yarbury’s _ever_ so quiet and reliable. No bother at all,” said Mrs. Hudson. There was an odd sort of relief yet wistfulness in her voice as she watched him go.

I cleared my throat a little. “Actually, I was wondering, Mrs. Hudson, if you might have a forwarding address for your previous tenant?” 

“Oh!” She came out of her reverie. “I do indeed, Doctor!” 

Mrs. Hudson led me to her modest sitting room, where she looked in her escritoire and gingerly pulled out a rather grubby looking piece of paper. She unfolded it and handed it to me. I took it equally gingerly. It appeared to be covered in chemical stains, charring, and what was possibly butter mixed with a little plum jam.

I looked up at Mrs. Hudson with a raised eyebrow.

She nodded in understanding. “I practically had to rugby tackle Mr. Holmes before he left, in order to get an address from him. He dashed it off on that piece of scrap paper.”

I looked back down at the somewhat obscured address. “So is that… Denham? In… Suffolk?”

“Dalham, I thought.” said Mrs. Hudson. 

I continued to study the address. The first line was completely indecipherable and I pointed to it with my free hand. “I don’t suppose you can read the name of the property too, can you? I’m afraid it’s beyond me.”

“Ah, yes,” said Mrs. Hudson, leaning over to see where I was indicating. “The butter stain has somewhat worsened.” She hesitated. “I… think it said ‘The Willows’. At least that’s where I’ve been forwarding Mr. Holmes's post to, and none of it has come back again.”

I nodded and made a note of the full address in my own notebook. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” 

I offered the piece of paper back but Mrs. Hudson smiled weakly. 

“Perhaps you would like to keep it, Doctor.”

And so I wrote a letter to Holmes, asking how he was and if I might come to visit but another week passed and still there was no reply. I was starting to feel somewhat anxious, I must admit, so I decided to send a telegram emphasising how much I wished to call. And _finally_ there was a reply. It was not a reply I had been expecting though:

`HOLMES NOT HERE BUT PLEASE DO CALL STOP `

`IT WOULD BE A PLEASURE TO SEE YOU DOCTOR STOP`

An innocuous enough message, you might suppose. But the sender’s name made my blood run cold.

`COL. S. MORAN`

Abandoning my patients, I left immediately for Suffolk by the next train. The whole of the lengthy journey was a blur, the entirety of my thoughts focusing on what Moran might have done to Holmes. I had not even known that Moran had been released. Though he had escaped the gallows, I had naturally expected him to be confined for the rest of his life. Moran was a very dangerous man. What exactly did he mean by “Holmes not here”? I tried not to look at the implications of Holmes no longer being safe and well in his own home. 

I was certainly not thinking clearly about anything else either. I should have asked for help from the local police but my fears kept me moving on and on until I was standing in Dalham before “The Willows”. I banged on the door, and it was quickly opened.

I did not truly see the figure who opened it though. There was a red mist before my eyes. 

“You scoundrel!” I yelled. “What have you done with Sherlock Holmes?!” 

And then I attacked.

My readers may already be aware of what happened next. The story was everywhere in the Suffolk papers and was picked up by some of the minor London editions. 

Col. S. Moran, or “Colin Samuel Moran, aged 26” was too taken aback to defend himself but “the charming and capable Mrs. Dinah Moran, aged 27” was swiftly off the mark, swiping at me with Mrs. Beeton's Book of Household Management, and making admirable work of it. If you did read any of the reports, I am sure you remember Mrs. Moran’s—aptly termed—blow-by-blow description of the fight, followed by the declaration that she had previously assumed me to be a gentleman but would now be sending all of her copies of the Strand to be pulped and she had always been more of an H. G. Wells admirer anyway. 

However let us return to the immediate aftermath of the fight. Once we had all calmed down, and some explanations had been given, I was invited into the young couple’s sitting room. We sat uncomfortably together, Mrs. Moran keeping a steady gaze directed at me, while Mr. Moran fully explained the situation. Firstly, this was not and had never been Holmes’s place of residence.

“We’ve been here since we married,” said Moran. “Just over a year. We were rather startled but excited to start getting Mr. Holmes’s post. But we weren’t sure what to do with it. It was being forwarded from the famous Baker Street, so there didn’t seem any point sending it back there. We thought it best just to wait until Mr. Holmes came to collect it.”

“But when we got your telegram, we thought we should open it in case it was urgent,” added Mrs. Moran, somewhat coldly. “And then we thought it might all be part of a case, and so I suggested to my husband that the right thing to do would be to invite you here.” She then gave what I assumed to be an attempt at a hollow laugh. She certainly was not smiling as she did it. 

I thought it best to make one last apology and then swiftly take my leave. But before I went, Moran handed over all of Holmes’s post, my own unopened letter amongst it.

Once back in London, I informed Mrs. Hudson that the address we had for Holmes was erroneous, so she would know not to forward any more post there. Then I went to the Yard to see if possibly Lestrade or Hopkins or another of Holmes’s contacts had the correct address. However, there was no luck there and I made my way back to Queen Anne Street. 

Where I sat in my tiny sitting room and contemplated the situation. Holmes leaving without giving me an address. Not giving any of the men at the Yard an address. _Deliberately_ giving Mrs. Hudson the wrong details when she insisted upon having an address? I felt a little unsure. All those times he had misled us for cases. The times he had kept important details to himself. 

The time he had stayed away from us all for three years.

Had Holmes decided to leave us all behind as he moved onto the next stage of his life and new exciting challenges? Feeling somewhat downcast, I took myself off to bed.

In the morning things looked somewhat brighter. As I attended to my patients, it started to seem more and more ridiculous that Holmes would just abandon us all. He could sometimes be a thoughtless man but he was not a cruel one. The simplest way to clear everything up would be to go and visit his brother and find out his address that way. 

So after work, off I went to Mycroft Holmes’s lodgings in Pall Mall. To unfortunately find that the man who embraced routine and barely ever left his fixed rails, had gone away on business for an unspecified amount of time. I was downcast again. It felt like fate. Perhaps I should just leave it all alone. 

But when I got home, I found the last post had arrived and Agnes had placed it ready for me on the side table in the sitting room. On the very top was a letter from Holmes and I tore it open in my haste. 

_My dear Watson,_ it began,

_Many apologies for not being in contact sooner. My new property ended up being in need of some unexpected repairs. However now it is completely ready for human habitation. I have even tidied away all of my books and papers!_

_My new home comes with a fair-sized piece of land. There is plenty of room for my bees and myself. And I am near the coast, so I have been able to begin swimming on a regular basis. I am a little isolated but you know that I do not need many people around me._

_So, how are things with you, Watson? I had rather hoped that I might have heard from you during this time but I understand you must have been busy too. If possible I wonder if you might be able to come and spend a few days? I would be exceedingly grateful for your company._

_—Holmes_

I set the letter down. So there it was. We were still friends. Holmes wanted me to visit. My fears were absolutely unfounded. Of course they were. There was just one problem left. Quite a significant problem. He had not included his home address.

I sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “Where on earth are you, Holmes?”

The postmark was smudged beyond all legibility and help. And presumably Holmes had thought that I already had his address from Mrs. Hudson. I looked around my sitting room, and I thought back to the day when he had rushed in to say goodbye. It seemed absurd that this might be the last time I would ever see him: smiling, excited, worrying about catching up with the removal men…

The removal men. I shook my head at my own stupidity. Mr. Abbot must surely know where Holmes and his luggage had been heading to.

The next day I went around to Mr. Abbot’s place of business. 

His wife greeted me and I asked if she recalled moving my friend’s belongings. “Mr. Holmes? Of course we remember! It was an honour, Doctor!” 

I explained my situation in some embarrassment but Mrs. Abbot immediately got out the ledger in a businesslike fashion without any fuss.

“Yes… Let me see... It was Dringham. In Sussex.”

Sussex! Well, that solved that part of the mystery. “Do you know the name of the actual property?”

She smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid not. We were just hired to transport everything to the station and transfer it into the goods van.”

I nodded in understanding. Naturally, conveying everything by train would have been the easier option. Holmes’s clothes, papers and other personal items were extensive but he actually owned very little furniture, the Baker Street lodgings having always been fully furnished. 

However, now at least I knew the place where Holmes was. Finding his specific property surely would not be too much of a difficulty. But after returning home and looking up Dringham in my atlas, it seemed that my relief might have been too premature. The name seemed to include several smaller villages and hamlets as well as the main town. It appeared I had quite a search ahead of me.

I needed to take a little time away from my practice to concentrate and search properly. However life was not as easily rearranged as when Holmes and I were younger. I did not immediately have the money to pay for another locum, so I decided to ask my young professional neighbour if he might consider taking over my practice while I was away, as Anstruther had done several years before. 

“Hopefully I will be gone merely a few days,” I explained. “Would you mind taking my patients as well as your own?”

“Of course I would like to help,” said young Ampleman. He smiled cautiously. “But I am actually an optician…?”

As I say, things no longer seemed to slot so neatly into place. But I returned the smile and tried to be reassuring. “If you could just tell them to come back in two or three days if whatever it is hasn’t cleared up yet. I should be back by then.”

My neighbour did not look terribly confident. “If you’re certain, Doctor Watson.”

“I’m sure it will be fine.” I placed a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Anstruther.”

That cautious smile made a reappearance. “Ampleman, Doctor.”

I sighed. “Yes, of course. Sorry.”

I travelled to Dringham, and after finding a room in the only hotel, I made my way to the local house agent’s in order to obtain a list of recently sold properties in the area. On the train, I had been turning over in my mind possible explanations as to why I needed this, to try and provoke sympathy rather than suspicion. A daughter who had eloped and whose safety I was worried for perhaps? However, in the end I did not need an excuse. My own modest fame came to the rescue. The gentleman in the office immediately recognised me and was only too eager to help. 

I decided to “come clean”, and only altering the truth a little, admitted I had lost Holmes’s forwarding address. If I had hoped this was to lead to my immediately being handed Holmes’s new whereabouts, I was to be sorely disappointed. Holmes’s name was not attached to any of the properties in the local area that had been sold in the last month.

“But perhaps Mr. Holmes used an agent of his own to sort out the details?” suggested the house agent.

This was a definite possibility. Holmes had mentioned in his letter that there had been unexpected repairs needed to his new home. These defects would have been far more likely to get past a mere agent than past Sherlock Holmes. 

I was handed a list of possible properties, for which I offered my profuse thanks. The trail was warming up again.

Early the next day I began my search. There were eight properties on the list. I glanced through them, hoping that one of them was indeed called “The Willows” or even something vaguely similar but none of the names was a particularly convincing match. However, I had brought Holmes’s letter with me and I now reread it, noting the details of the environment of his new abode. I was immediately able to discard three houses which were in the centre of the main town and thus not near to the coastline. This left five, all in surrounding villages: two in Dringham Magna, one in Dringham Parva, one in Dringham Lea, and one in Dringham Green. 

I was able to hire a local dogcart to take me to the first address in Dringham Magna, and once there I asked the driver to wait. The door was opened by a girl who was clearly the maid and I decided the direct approach was the sensible one. 

“Good morning! Does Mr. Sherlock Holmes live here?” I asked.

“I… beg your pardon, sir?” The girl looked completely taken aback which rather answered my question.

“Ah, my mistake, my dear. I seem to have knocked on the wrong door.”

The girl involuntarily glanced beyond me at the deserted countryside, and took a step backwards further into the house. I could not say that I blamed her. I attempted a reassuring smile, raised my cap, and made my retreat.

The dogcart took me on to the second address in Dringham Magna. A much smaller abode, which I thought might perhaps suit Holmes better. 

I knocked on the door and it was opened by a large fellow who I supposed to be the master of the establishment. He did not look to be happy to be disturbed by a passing stranger and also did not seem a likely friend of Holmes. However, I gave him a polite smile and made my enquiry.

“Good morning, sir. You wouldn’t happen to be sharing lodgings with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, would you?”

“Sherlock Holmes…?” The man stared at me incredulously. “And who’s looking for him? Doctor Watson?”

Ah, my modest fame pushing through again. I gave him a small smile. “Yes, indeed. At your service.”

The man continued to stare. Then he laughed in rather an unpleasant way. “You’re Doctor Watson, are you? Come on, what’s your game?” He took a step forward. “Trying to trick your way into innocent folk’s homes with your fairy tales? Doctor Watson, my foot! I’ve seen his picture in the papers and in the books. He’s a much younger and handsomer man. Get lost before I set the dog on you!”

I did think briefly about arguing but instead made a rapid retreat, and urgently requested the driver of the dogcart to take me back to my hotel. 

I had some lunch and pondered my approach for the next address. I perhaps needed to be a little more circumspect. Holmes’s fame had turned him into something of a mythical figure, and the local inhabitants were perhaps understandably not prepared for his loyal associate turning up out of the blue to ask for his whereabouts.

I made my plans. There was an occasional omnibus that would take me fairly close to the next house, which was in Dringham Parva. I hurried and caught the very next ‘bus, and eventually disembarked near a group of small shops to begin the walk to my destination.

It was a relatively large building, with a larger piece of attached land then the first two addresses. I decided to go around to the back and see if I could spot Holmes or perhaps his newly acquired beehives. I forced myself to stroll casually as I went. I was simply a gentleman getting away from London and taking in some fresh air! Once at the rear of the house though, I unfortunately found the back garden was enclosed by a tall wall. I hesitated but I must admit the previous attack on my age was still rankling and I determined that I would try to climb the wall so I could see over. Everything was still and quiet. I decided I could risk it. 

It was a struggle but I managed it. The wall was built of naturally formed stones and there were plenty of hand- and foot-holds. I eventually pulled myself to the top and, keeping my head low, took a glimpse into the garden. To find three elderly ladies staring straight back at me, armed respectively with a hoe, a rake and a spade. My approach apparently had not been as silent as I had hoped. 

“Er, lovely weather, isn’t it?” I offered. 

This did not go down well.

“We have sent the maid to the police station,” said the Lady of the Rake calmly. “Constable Brookley will be here shortly.”

Not the best of situations to be in but this was not my first time of having the police called on me. I was able to remain equally calm.

“Well, then, I’ll bid you good afternoon. I do not wish to put the constable to any bother!” 

Pulling my head back to try and hide my features as much as possible, I swiftly made my way back down the wall, jumping the last few feet. Whereupon I made a dash for it, showing quite a clean pair of heels. There was life in the old dog yet.

Another return visit to my hotel for an early light dinner, and an attempt to establish an alibi of definitely not having been out anywhere in the vicinity of Dringham Parva, and then I took another ‘bus to the vicinity of address number four in Dringham Lea. 

After alighting from the ‘bus I still had quite a distance to cover, and as I strode along I turned over in my mind what I was going to say when I knocked on the door. Clearly the circumspect approach was not proving to be a good idea, and so it was back to the direct approach. I decided I would simply ask for “Mr. Holmes”. It was a common enough name and though I ran the risk of being faced with the wrong Mr. Holmes, I was certain I could find a straightforward excuse if the situation arose. 

I reached my destination and knocked firmly on the door. After a moment it was opened by a lady in her latter years with a beaming smile. This smile faded a little into mild embarrassment. “Oh! I thought you were my husband, sir.”

That neatly sorted that one out. Holmes could indeed be secretive but I really think he would have let me know if he had decided to abruptly take the plunge into marriage after all these years. I smiled at the lady and as an excuse for my presence, asked if she could direct me to my final destination at Dringham Green.

So here I was at the end of my search. I was torn between excitement at seeing Holmes again and preparing myself for the disappointment of finding that the last house on my list was not Holmes’s property after all.

It was only another ten minute walk. But my heart sank when I saw the building. It looked far too large for one man. It appeared more suitable as some kind of institution. However, the bit was between my teeth and I was determined to see if this was Holmes’s address. 

The door was standing open. I knocked to no result, and after a moment's hesitation I entered. Almost at once I could see the place was some kind of educational establishment, in the early stages of being set up. Desks, lecterns and various boxes of books stood neatly in the entrance hall, waiting to be moved to their final destinations within the building.

However, the faint hope of finding Holmes was still keeping me optimistic. 

I looked around and listened. The place seemed entirely quiet. “Good evening!” I called. But there was no answer.

Yes, I should have left and come back later. Or left and attempted to telephone or send round a note. But I was so close to completing my quest...

Taking one last look around, I made my way upstairs. Almost immediately, I caught a glimpse of an open door leading into a sitting room, with a further door inside on the far wall. Perhaps leading to a bedroom? Could these possibly be Holmes’s rooms and he was renting the rest of the place out? Or perhaps this was Holmes’s own educational establishment and he would be working here as a lecturer, training a new generation of detectives!

I felt I was making progress at last. Looking through the door, I thought I glimpsed one or two items that looked familiar, and I stepped cautiously into the room to examine them. But once I started looking around properly, I had to accept this was not in fact Holmes’s room. Too neatly and almost severely arranged—all eccentricities and personality firmly suppressed. I had just reached the point of accepting that I was grasping at straws and Holmes was not here at all when—

“Who the devil are you?”

A young man with piercing dark eyes had stepped proprietorially into the room. 

I simply stared at him. I had spent the day being accused of nefarious goings-on, and so I truly wished to be reassuring at this juncture. Nevertheless it was perhaps not the wisest thing to reply to this question with: “Don’t worry! I’m not a burglar!”

Perhaps understandably, the young man sneered at me. “Oh, you’re _not_ a burglar. Well, that’s all right then. Do feel free to keep looking through my belongings.”

I smiled weakly and attempted to edge round him towards the door. “It’s just a small mistake on my part. I will leave now.”

“I don’t think so!” 

He made a grab for me. However, I pushed past him and rushed down the stairs. He hurtled after me. I could hear he was in a furious rage, which made him dangerous but hopefully also meant he was not thinking clearly.

I got down the stairs, through the hall and back out of the front door. Then I ran as fast as my middle-aged legs could take me, though always taking notice of the way I was heading. My pursuer was a lot younger and faster than me but I was relatively clear-headed and able to hide here and there to allow myself a small advantage. And all the time I was heading back to the house containing the lady with the charming smile, in the hope that both she and her husband were in. 

Finally I reached their door and I knocked furiously until it was opened.

“I’m terribly sorry!” I panted, “but I wonder if I might just come in. There has been a small misunderstanding and— Great heavens!”

It was not the lady who stood before me. I was looking into the familiar face of Sherlock Holmes.

He beamed at me. “Watson! My dear fellow! It’s been an age. Of course you can come in!”

He looked curiously over my shoulder. “Oh, is that Ian Murdoch coming after you? Did you go down to the Gables to introdu—?”

“Yes! Yes! Can we just shut the door?” I pushed rather rudely past Holmes and slammed the door behind us. 

I looked wildly around before returning my attention to Holmes. “You live here then?” My eyes widened as the realisation hit me. “With your wife?”

Holmes regarded me somewhat worriedly. “Watson… are you all right?”

I gestured vaguely. “Where is the lady who was here before?”

“Mrs. Norcroft, you mean? My housekeeper? Her husband has collected her and they’ve gone home.” Holmes looked bemused. “Why? Were you after a cup of tea? I can make us a pot, if you like.”

There was a sudden pounding on the door.

Holmes raised an eyebrow at me. “Though perhaps I will just have a word with young Murdoch first. Do go through to the sitting room, dear boy.”

I took a chair in the sitting room and balanced on the edge, listening anxiously until the shouting dwindled away to more reasonable tones, and then with great relief I heard Holmes shut the door before making his way to his kitchen and sorting out the tea.

He entered the sitting room and set a tray down on a table. “Maybe in a while you can explain exactly what you were doing at the Gables. Murdoch was not being terribly coherent. But first, tea!”

He poured out a cup and handed it to me. I added milk and stirred it thoroughly. 

Holmes prepared himself a cup and then sat back.

“So,” he said beaming, as I took my first sip. “It’s wonderful to have you down here at last. Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

I somehow managed at this point to take a rather larger mouthful than I had intended. But after I had finished choking and Holmes had finished banging me on the back, I was able to give my friend a genuine smile. I had found Holmes again, I had a decent cup of tea, a comfortable chair, and I was in no danger of being arrested or assaulted for the rest of the day. Things could have been a lot worse.

I shrugged a little. “It was no trouble at all to get here.”

“I’m glad to hear it, old fellow.” I believe Holmes was starting to have his suspicions though, as there was a twinkle in his eye when he smiled back at me. “We really don’t want too much excitement at our time of life, do we?”


End file.
